Divided
by Fic Fairy
Summary: What really brought Connie back to Holby? - A story of a fractured mother and daughter unit, and a usually strong woman fighting to save her relationship with her child. Warnings for child abuse and related triggers, please proceed with serious caution.
1. Chapter 1

***

It is truth universally acknowledged that the worst possible thing to face is your own mirror image, which is why I know, as I climb into the driving seat of my car, watching her throw herself into the passenger seat, an obstreperous expression on her face that this is not going to be easy.

The pout, a horrible trait that she inherited from me, is in place, and where once, when I was giving it not on the receiving end, I found it to be the best of all the facial expressions, right now I'm sorely tempted to slap it away, and indeed would do so were it not for the tears, recriminations and threats of calling Childline that I know would follow.

To begin with, I concentrate on the road, wanting to lower my own anger levels before I can trust myself enough to speak. Finally, as we leave the leafy commuter town where my daughter has been attending boarding school and hit the motorway towards Holby, I finally confront her.

"Why?"

Out of the corner of my eye I see her shrug like none of the whole affair doesn't matter which is as far away from the truth as things can possibly be.

"Cos I stole tuck from Josie and no one cared. So I bent Millie's fingers back and no one cared. Because everyone just 'wanted to help me' especially Mrs Jones."

"So you cut off her daughter's ponytail?!" I can't keep the incredulity out of my voice, remembering the crooked mess that was the hair of Grace's Housemistress's 3 ½ year old daughter, revealed to me some 50 minutes earlier.

She shrugs again, "It'll grow back."

Her voice is so cold and callous that she gives me, in my worst moments, a run for my money. If I wasn't driving I think I'd actually vomit, but instead I drive on, my eyes on the road.

"Why?" Same question, second time. The answer doesn't get any better.

"Because it was a rubbish school and I wanted to leave. Now I can."

I think back to the little girl, her teary face, not to mention that of her mother, a kind woman, a House Parent, who has done nothing but try to support Grace during her time at the exclusive prep school I had placed her in on our return to Holby. I think of their turmoil and I blame myself. I am after all the one who dumped her in boarding because it was easier for me. Because it was more cost efficient .

Because it was easier than dealing with the truth.

"If you didn't want to board you could have said." I say, sounding so much calmer than I feel, "You didn't have to prove how angry you were by cutting a 3 year old's hair off."

I feel a frosty glare come in my direction, "It wasn't about boarding." At her words I know what's coming and my heart goes cold in anticipation. All the same, when she continues, when she tells me she misses our home in San Francisco, I try to kid myself, I try to make it all OK…

"It was just a town, Grace. Just like Holby."

But I'm kidding myself, her response proves that,

"San Fran wasn't just a town. San Fran had James."

xxx

Somehow, I don't crash the car. I don't vomit. I don't cry. I don't do any of the thing I long to do. Instead I drive, on autopilot, as my heart breaks.

It's only when we arrive home that I allow myself to look at her, pout still in place, looking so much older than her 7 years, as indeed she now is, at least inside. I reach for her hand but she snatches it away, which hurts, and then speaks, which hurts even more.

"I loved him. Why did you take me away?"

Why?

A million different reasons and they were all for her sake, not that I'll ever make her understand that. I did what any good mother would have done, if she'd allowed herself to get into the same wretched position in the first place.

"It wasn't a good thing for you."

The pout becomes harder, colder, "Says who? You?" And then, the ultimate knife to the heart, "You're just jealous… because he wanted me, more than he wanted you."

I can take no more; I bolt from the car, the bile already rising in my throat. Of all the situations I ever imagined I'd face in my life, this was never one of them. I never thought my daughter would end up viewing me as a sexual rival rather than a mother. My seven year old daughter. My baby.

I don't make it upstairs, instead stumbling into the downstairs cloakroom, vomiting into the sink as the world begins to spin. Bam, up comes lunchtime's Brie and Parma Ham Ciabatta, hastily joined by 11am's coffee and 8am's cereal bar.

I retch, again and again, until there's literally nothing left. A mouthful of mouthwash later and I turn to find her standing there, her expression cold and unimpressed, and when she speaks her tone far and away beyond her innocence and years.

"Truth hurts does it?"

And then, she's gone.

xxx

Exhausted from vomiting, I drag myself to my study, and having retrieved a bottle of Scotch from a filing cabinet in the corner of the room slump into my desk chair, before pouring myself a large measure of liquor. I neck it, hating myself for the defeatist nature of the action, but needing to do it, needing to feel something. I've felt numb for way too long.

Since that first night in fact, back in San Fran. I'd been doing some locum work in an ER, enjoying the experience, liking the renewed learning curve of doing something different. James, my then partner and fuckbuddy, had agreed to mind Grace, not for the first time, whilst I was at work because my sitter was irritatingly unreliable.

I'd wrapped up my shift, taken myself home, gone straight to my bedroom to head to the ensuite to wash off the grime of the night shift.

That was where I found them. Asleep in my bed. Not a stitch of clothing between them.

I was incandescent . His actions, no matter how innocent he claimed they were, were a long way from appropriate. Yet still, I let him smooth talk me. Let them both smooth talk me. He said they'd just dozed off after a swim. He said it was an accident. She confirmed it, I believed them.

I even let him screw me to prove it.

But it niggled. I felt reluctant to leave them alone together, and when that made Grace angrier and angrier, my concerns grew. Because she wanted him there and hated me for denying her.

So, needing answers, I hacked into her Skype account. The virtual networking tool I installed on her laptop so she could keep in contact with her father, so she could have what other children have. A 24/7 Dad.

Instead it became the virtual networking tool James used to abuse her. Where he'd carried on abusing her after I'd put a stop to their private time together.

Where the abuse became mental rather than physical.

My world, my life as I knew it, in the second that I found those messages, videos and photos, was over.

Logic, grown up logic, told me what to do next. Call the police, the Feds; have the disgusting pervert thrown into prison where he belonged. But yet…

I'd invited him into my home. He stayed over at my instance. We'd been sleeping together for months, and above all I'd left her with him. I'd let him do what he did.

I was humiliated, embarrassed, and terrified that Sam would find out and take her away from me. Quite rightly, I mean, he's a good father, he loves Grace. He'd have every right to want custody. To fight to have her with him.

So instead, I ran away. I picked up the phone to Guy Self – an old friend from my days in the UK and begged him for any job he could give me. Within 48 hours of finding the evidence on Skype, we were on a plane 'home'. Within 7 days Grace was enrolled in boarding school, out of sight and out of mind except for weekends, when most of the time I was working anyway and the Nanny took over.

I was busy, I had a new empire to conquer; work to throw myself into. I was meant to forget that James Allen ever existed.

I should have known it was never going to be that easy.

Grace wasn't going to forget him. Wasn't prepared to forget him.

And therefore, neither could I.

xxx


	2. Chapter 2

**I'm going to put this out there right now, this chapter isn't actually very nice. Given the plot thus far you know what it's about and it just got worse so please avoid this if you are likely to find it triggering or upsetting. Huge apologies to Connie who is losing the plot most spectacularly bless her!**

xxx

Eventually I decide it's time to face the music, so reluctantly leave the sanctuary of my study and head to the living room where Grace is sat watching TV; a trashy soap she's far too young to be watching, not that she's not already been exposed to worse. She looks up as I enter but only to glare at me; the same very angry stubborn expression still in place.

"Log me onto the Internet. Now."

I don't bother picking her up on the lack of 'please' or her blatantly disrespectful tone. I'm over fighting the small battles these days, I simply don't have the energy. Instead I just shake my head, bracing myself for a fight, "No."

Although I'm a lot more cautious than I once was, I still allow her limited supervised access to the Internet, knowing she feels punished enough already for something that really isn't her fault, without me making it any worse for her. She is, after all, the victim in all this in spite of her, at times, frustrating behaviour. But I'm not in the mood to do her any favours today, and tell her so, but once again she's quick to put me in my place.

"I want to talk to my Daddy. You can't stop me doing that."

She's right and I know it, but I don't like the idea, not in the slightest. I've managed to hide Grace's antics at school from him up to now, but I can hardly keep her expulsion a secret, and Sam is already doubting my mothering abilities after our sudden unexplained departure from the States. This is going to send his concern into a whole other stratosphere, and I really don't feeling up to having the conversation at this precise moment in time.

Luckily for me though, I'm not the only one who would suffer during the course of such a discussion, which I decide to use to my advantage. I look at my daughter,

"You really want to Skype Dad at 2.30 on a school day and explain to him why you're at home?" She opens her mouth to speak but I don't give her chance, deciding it's time that I took a little bit of control back in our close to imploding relationship, "Because if you do, that's just fine," I bluff, "but how happy is he going to be with you, Grace? You just got expelled."

"He'll understand." She sounds so bloody sure of herself that again I have to fight the temptation to smack her, "He never liked the fact you made me go to boarding school anyway."

Her final point is very true, but I'm still holding a card or two of my own. I disappear into the hallway and retrieve my iPad from my briefcase before returning to the living room where I power up the Skype app. I'm about to dial Sam when I stop and turn to her, as I had planned to do all along.

"Will he understand though? Really. I mean, it's a serious thing you did. That little girl was 3 old years old, just like Cindy." I watch Grace carefully and can tell she is picturing her American half sister with her pretty blonde curls, inherited from Sam's new wife Kadie. "It might make Daddy worry about what you'll do to her next time you visit."

Her angry stare becomes a look of pensive concern, and I feel guilty for manipulating her emotions in such a way, but at the same time I need that breathing space; I need to tell Sam what has happened in my own time. I need to brace myself for the inevitable questions and accusations.

"Ok." She says quietly, "We can ring him later. I'm going to my room." I breathe a sigh of relief, both because she's acquiesced over the phone call and because, with her tucked away in her room, I don't have to deal with her any more. It's a terrible thing to say about my own daughter but since James, I can't bear to be around her. It just hurts too much.

xxx

I leave her, no doubt to head to the drinks cabinet or look on Google to find another rubbish school to send me to, and go to my room. I'm annoyed that she stopped me ringing my Daddy but she had a point. He loves me to bits, way more than she does, but he'll be pretty angry when he finds out what I've done. And I don't like Daddy to be angry with me, that's why I haven't told him about what happened with James, even though if I did he might let me go and live with him in America, so at least James and I would be in the same country.

Once in my room, I leave it a few moments to make sure she hasn't followed me and then I dig right to the very bottom of my dressing up box, holding my breath, hoping she hasn't found what I'm looking for, whilst I've been at school. Luckily though, it's still there, wrapped in one of her old surgery hats which she gave me so I could dress up like her.

Like I'd want to do that.

I pull it out and unwrap to get to what's inside.

My very own iPhone.

She doesn't know about it. Obviously. James gave it to me right back at the beginning and it's no good for Internet things with her being so mean and not letting me have our wifi code, but it is still good for text messages. It was the part of the reason I wanted to get myself kicked out of school, cos I didn't dare take it there in case someone found it and took it off me; we only had a little cupboard for our things so there was nowhere to hide it, not like here.

I turn it on and send James a text telling him what I've done. It's morning in America so I know he'll answer pretty quick; he always does when I text him.

Sure enough.

'My clever Princess. So proud of you. Miss you lots x'

At least someone loves me.

I send another message telling him I miss him too, then he texts back asking if I want to play our favourite game. Dress up. He picks something for me to wear and I send him a picture of me wearing it. It makes me feel really special and he likes it cos he gets to see me looking pretty. I ask him what he wants to see me in today and after a few minutes he texts back a response.

'Does your mum still have that silky green robe baby? It will look so much better on you than it does on her.'

I know the one he means. It hangs on the back of her bedroom door, and since she's downstairs getting drunk she probably wouldn't notice if I borrowed it.

Maybe dressing up as her might be fun after all.

xxx

Once she's gone I switch off the television and pick up my iPad again. I open up safari and Google words I've googled so many times over the past few months.

Mothers of abuse victims.

Pages and pages of support groups and forums flash up in front of me, but I do what I always do at this point. I shut the window down again.

I'm not ready to face it.

Don't get me wrong, I know what happened. I saw it with my own eyes, both in person and in the photos and messages on her phone, but I don't know how I'll ever be able to come to terms with it; with the things he did to her, and the fact it was all my fault.

It's not just the fact I gave him access to her, although I will blame myself for that until the day I die. It's the fact that he had me, and I wasn't enough for him. I didn't satisfy him, I didn't give him what he needed. I mean for Gods sake, I'd have done anything he asked to stop this happening; dressed in a school uniform, giggled like a child. I'd have called him fucking Daddy if it meant he'd kept his hands off of her.

I didn't protect her. I handed her to him on a platter.

I ruined her life.

It's no wonder she hates me.

I toss my tablet aside and head to my drinks cabinet, which is in serious need of replenishment, as it seems to be most of the time these days. I don't have a problem, in my line of work I can't afford to, but alcohol is proving to be my crutch of choice. I pour a drink and return to the sofa, curling up to drink it, wondering what the hell to do next.

My head says I should be finding her another boarding school, getting her back out the way as soon as I can, but at the same time I can't face another experience like the one I've just been through. The endless phone calls detailing her misdemeanours, the pitying looks from the house staff when I pick her up every Friday. The temper tantrums when I take her back on Sunday night.

Life is an endless battle, and it's draining.

So instead, I decide to give her what she wants. Of sorts. It won't be easy for me but then I hardly deserve easy after what I've done to her. I make a few calls, book an appointment to visit a local day school to enrol her and secure the services of a full time Nanny. Then I head to her room to tell her the news.

She's in her ensuite bathroom when I get there, and makes me wait a full five minutes before she deigns to grace me with her presence, wherein she throws herself down on her bed doing a perfect impression of a bored teenager.

"Yes?"

Her attitude riles me, so I'm shorter with her than I'd intended, "You win." I snap, in a tone not at all appropriate for talking to my 7 year old daughter, "Have your way. Live here full time, go to a day school. Just bloody behave."

She shrugs nonchalantly, clearly nonplussed, "That's not my way. My way would be to go back to San Fran, and be with James."

The bile rises in my throat again, as tears prick at the corner of my eyes, "Grace, sweetheart," I bite my lip to stop myself from crying, "why don't you get it? Why don't you understand what a bad man he was."

She smiles, shaking her head at me despairingly, like she's the adult and I'm the child who just doesn't get it.

"Because he wasn't a bad man, Mummy. He just didn't fancy you."

xxx


End file.
